steps soft as
falling snowflakes, and Margaret Melville was not permitted to enter at
all. Every morning fresh flowers were laid upon my pillow, which I knew
were gathered by the hand of Ernest, and they whispered to me of such
sweet things my languid senses _ached_ to hear them.

One day, while in this passive, languishing, dreamy condition, having
fallen into tranquil slumbers, I was left a few moments alone. I was
awakened by a stronger touch than that of Edith's fairy hand.

"Why, how do you do, darling? How do you do?" cried a hearty, gay voice,
that echoed like a bugle in the stillness of the room. "The doctor said
you were getting well, and I determined I would not be kept out any
longer. What in the world do they banish _me_ for? I am the best nurse
in the universe, strong as a lion, and wakeful as an owl. What do they
shut you up in this dark room for?--just to give you the blues!--It is
all nonsense. I am going to put back these curtains, and let in some
light,--you will become etiolated. I want to see how you look."

Dashing at the curtains, she tossed two of them back as high as she
could throw them, letting in a flood of sunshine to my weak and dazzled
eyes.

"Don't! don't!" I entreated, getting dreadfully nervous and agitated; "I
cannot bear it,--indeed I cannot."

"Yes you can; you will be better in a moment,--it is only coming out of
darkness into marvellous light,--a sudden change, that is all. You do
look white,--white, delicate, and sweet as a water-lily. I have a great
mind to invite Ernest up to see you, you look so interesting. He has
been like a distracted man, a wandering Jew, an unlaid ghost, ever since
you have been ill. And poor Richard Clyde comes every night to inquire
after you, with such a woebegone countenance. And that great, ugly,
magnificent creature of a teacher, he has been too,--you certainly are a
consequential little lady."

Thus she rattled on, without dreaming of the martyrdom she was
inflicting on my weakened nerves.

"I have no doubt you mean to be kind," said I, ready to cry from
weakness and irritation; "but if you will only drop the curtains and
leave me, I will be so very grateful."

"There--the curtains are down. I am not going to speak another word--I
am a perfect lamb--I will bathe your head with cologne, and put you to
sleep nicely."

Stepping across the room, as she thought, very softly, but making more
noise than Edith would in a week, she seized a bottle